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Updated: June 1, 2025
Wentworth came in the morning, tremulous, eager, holding Michael by the shoulders, as he used to do when Michael was a small boy, as he had never done since. The brothers looked long at each other with locked hands, water in their eyes. "Wenty," said Michael at last, with his grave smile. And that was all. They sat down together in silence on the little bed.
And with it came a new protective comprehension of the man beside him who had cherished him from his childhood onwards. He put out his hand and gripped Wentworth's. "God bless you, Wenty," he said. And for a moment they who were so far apart seemed very near together. She sees no tears, Or any tone Of thy deep groan She hears: Nor does she mind Or think on't now That ever thou Wast kind.
His mind would not take hold. He looked for the twentieth time at Wentworth's telegram. Wentworth was hurrying towards him at this moment, would be travelling all night, would reach him in the morning. Dear, dear Wenty, he would be happy again now. Michael groaned. "It's no kind of use. I can't believe it." He tried to think of Fay. He should see her soon, touch her hand, hear her voice.
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